Manhak Seogo (1)
“You said he'd wake up around now, and look, he really did.”
The first thing I saw upon opening my eyes was that madman's disappointed face. Just looking at it made my breath catch in my throat.
That bastard's the reason!
I felt like I needed to smash my fist right into that mug if I wanted to eat in peace from now on.
You, just take one hit first!
The moment I tried to sit up to make it happen—
“Argh!”
A sharp pain lanced through my chest.
Oh, right. During the spar, Third Brother's slash had cut my chest open. And yet here I was, still alive after taking that monstrous strike. My arms were intact too. Good job, me.
Praise for myself ends there. That's that, and this is this. I would plant my fist in that face.
“Tsk tsk. Don't strain yourself, lie back down. You'll reopen that barely healed wound.”
“Y-You, you, you...”
“Want some water?”
“You crazy son of a bitch!”
I finally managed to string words together.
“Don't you know I almost died because of you?”
“Haha! Sorry about that.”
“You're laughing? You think this is funny right now?”
“But you won, didn't you?”
I... won? What?
“Looks like you're awake.”
Singui walked in at that moment.
“Your voice carries outside, so your energy must be recovering too. Youth really is a wonderful thing.”
I forced myself upright.
“Ugh.”
“I told you, you'll burst it open, my lord.”
Can't someone shut this crazy bastard up?
I finally propped myself against the headboard. Now that I was sitting, I could see where I was.
“This is the Uiyakdang.”
“Yes. The stitches held up nicely, luckily.”
Singui glanced at the wound on my chest as he answered. I asked what I'd been meaning to earlier.
“Did I lose?”
“No, didn't I just say—”
“Shut up for once, will you?!”
“What did I even...”
I glared, and Namgung Je-cheon quickly averted his eyes and clammed up.
“Tsk tsk. You deserve a scolding, boy.”
Singui flicked Namgung Je-cheon's forehead.
“Ow!”
“What? Hurt?”
Singui was a Chojeoljeong master himself.
“That's why I don't bother talking to ignorant fools like you.”
“Watch your mouth, kid. And the elder's been looking for you—think it's okay to stick around here?”
“Now that the Youngest Young Master is awake, I'll head out.”
“Then go, quick.”
“Well...”
Namgung Je-cheon turned back before leaving the Uiyakdang, trailing off.
“I'll come to your quarters tonight, Young Master.”
“Don't you dare!”
My barely settled anger surged back up. The wilted look on Namgung Je-cheon's face until a second ago twisted into a smirk.
This psycho.
I'd seen people go from crying to laughing, but deflating to grinning? First time for everything.
“Even if I don't come, you'll be looking for me by nightfall.”
The bastard spouted nonsense like it was profound truth. If my body were normal, I wouldn't just sit here listening.
Namgung Je-cheon left.
“Haa...”
Finally, with him gone, I could breathe easy. As I caught my breath, Singui spoke up.
“You beat Namgung So in the spar. He's gone into secluded training over the loss. It's been a full month already.”
“What?”
My breath caught again. A month had passed?
* * *
In the 1st Gajujeon, Namgung Hancheol sat cross-legged, eyes closed. An old man stood before him.
The old man spoke.
“The youngest is awake.”
Namgung Hancheol opened his eyes. His unflinching gaze fixed on the elder.
The old man—Namgung Ilro—had seen those eyes countless times, yet still couldn't read their depths.
“What do you plan to do?”
Namgung Ilro cut straight to it.
The family was balanced among three factions. But Third Brother's sudden seclusion had upset it. First and Second had been checking each other, holding steady so far. But Namgung Ilro predicted it wouldn't last.
“It's already decided, isn't it?”
Namgung Hancheol replied indifferently.
“Decided...”
Namgung Ilro could guess what that meant.
“The youngest passed the year-end evaluation. All who pass get the same reward.”
“Exactly.”
Passing granted full Namgung membership—and access to the Manhak Seogo.
The Namgung Clan had three libraries: the Manhak Seogo with ten thousand martial manuals, the Cheonhak Seogo with a thousand, and the Baekhak Seogo with a hundred.
Names might suggest otherwise, but ranked by quality: Baekhak Seogo, Cheonhak Seogo, Manhak Seogo.
They housed the clan's collected martial scriptures. The top Baekhak Seogo brimmed with the Gu Pa Il Bang's secret arts.
Why? During the Righteous-Demonic War, countless masters died, and Namgung handled the aftermath.
The sects knew Namgung held their secrets—but demanded nothing.
Simple reason: they'd get beaten if they asked. They'd already tried.
* * *
There was a famous tale from the past.
Ilseon Dosa, former Shaolin head, visited demanding the Daeban-yasim-gong.
All sects watched. It was as if he spoke for them all—likely with backroom deals.
The clan head then was Namgung Bigwang, Namgung Hancheol's father.
He told the demanding monk: “No thanks?”
Ilseon Dosa chanted calmly, explaining.
“Amitabha. For the ways of the jianghu, now that the war's over, return Shaolin's arts.”
“Why should I? If I'd left them, the Demon Cult would've taken them forever. I smashed those bastards' heads to retrieve them—why give them back to you bald monk?”
“But the ways of the jianghu...”
“Screw the jianghu ways. Without me, they'd have lost everything to the Demon Cult. What did you monks do when they raided your scripture hall? We saved Shaolin, we bled first to save the Central Plains.”
Ilseon Dosa couldn't retort. It was all true.
Shaolin could only watch as demons looted.
“Amitabha.”
“I like jianghu ways too. But have some shame. Fine, you came in force—I can't just send you empty-handed. Want it? Spar with my son. Win, it's yours. Deal?”
“Even if you say that, how can I fight a child?!”
“Then fight me.”
“Amitabha.”
Ilseon Dosa instinctively glanced at the youth beside the world's greatest—the Heavenly Demon's age-mate, still baby-faced. He'd seen the boy fight demons a few times. With talent like that, Shaolin would thrive.
But Ilseon had decades more training. Even if the boy learned in the womb, Ilseon had double.
“Amitabha.”
Sorry, kid—but as head, he had duties.
“Very well. Just don't complain my hands are heavy.”
“Fiery. Hancheol, you wanted to see the Heavenly Demon's skills? Beat this monk.”
25-year-old Namgung Hancheol asked:
“Is this monk stronger than the Heavenly Demon?”
“Heh. Amitabha.”
Ilseon steadied his rising ire. 80 years alive, first time called “monk” by a wet-behind-the-ears kid. Well, first besides these two.
“About even. Demon's a bit ahead, but full power? He could take an arm.”
“Got it. No holding back this time?”
“Amitabha.”
Ilseon endured. He was here begging; the boy was low-rank but the top master's heir.
“Monk, he's asking if he can go all out?”
“Amitabha. Doesn't matter.”
“No whining later.”
“Amitabha. Amitabha.”
Ilseon chanted silently.
“Good. Fight.”
Boom!
The estate wall crumbled. Crowds who'd swarmed with Ilseon were dust-covered.
They might've complained—but all stared, mouths agape, eyes wide. Sect leaders, frozen.
Rumble—Baekbo Singwon filled the air.
Flash—Seomjeon-sip-sam-geum-roe countered from the opposite side.
Crack! Dragon Head Claw from Ilseon.
Snap! Iron Leg countered by Namgung Hancheol.
They landed. Ilseon shot forward—no windup.
Hands extended softly: Geumgang Budong Sinbeop into Anti-Demon Twin Tiger Palms.
Namgung Hancheol unleashed fists like thunder: Thunderclap Fist and Great Chain Nineteen Forms.
Ilseon clapped hands, flicked fingers—ten energies in a line, snuffing lightning. One Finger Zen, Ten Fingers.
Heavenly Thunder Finger, Heavenly Thunder.
Namgung mirrored, fiercer bolts.
...A barrage of ultimate arts followed. Exchanges blurred; each a masterpiece.
“Amitabha.”
Ilseon retreated. 150 exchanges in a blink—even with this 30-something kid.
Terror in his eyes toward Namgung Bigwang, who just smiled.
Monster sires monsters.
Ilseon's aura shifted—serene, profound. Perfect clarity.
“Young patron, my next may be my last. Yield if afraid. Sincere advice from a senior.”
“Do it or don't.”
Amitabha.
Current top clan: Namgung. But next generation? Maybe.
That's why elites gathered. But their faces darkened.
They sensed it: Namgung now and future.
Thus, now—Shaolin's sole chance to surpass!
Kill the boy here!
Cowardly? Perhaps.
“Amitabha.”
He chanted to soothe his shame.
I'll bear the sin.
Vast energy surged. Eyes blazed, robes billowed.
Lifetime pinnacle: recent epiphany.
Ilseon moved. First step: one. Second: two. Third: three.
Lian Tai Nine Grades. Shaolin legend.
Nine forms, each an art's essence. Pre-Ilhwang glory: invincible.
Center of righteous Murim! Polaris! Millennium Shaolin!
All thought so—until the youth moved.
“The Heavenly Demon's not that impressive.”
Immense power erupted—like playtime over.
And.
Slash.
One stroke rent the world. Nine vanished; one Ilseon staggered, clutching shoulder.
No arm there. It lay forlorn on the ground.
The youth spoke.
“Felt killing intent, went serious. Cut deep by accident? Want me to lop one off too?”
“...”
Silence. Youth raised sword on his own arm—
“Amitabha! Stop. I yield. Shaolin vows no demands on Namgung-held scriptures. Here and now.”
“Monk, my bad on the arm. Sorry.”
Gruff apology. Ilseon one-handed gassho, departed.
Silence fell. Namgung Bigwang broke it.
“Others? Want your manuals back?”
Horror rippled. No one wanted one arm forever.
Namgung Bigwang added:
“You make me sound like the Heavenly Demon. Relax. A proposal.”
He grinned.
“We'll keep your secrets safe. Want them? Enter Namgung, learn what you can, take back to your sects. I won't block the strong.”
After, every Central Plains sect sent disciples.
Namgung grew vast, untouchable.
Oddly... disciples learned, but stayed—voluntarily.
Speculation abounded. Top theory: dyed Namgung colors.
Their sects seemed petty. Having embraced the world, tasted true Murim—they were bound, unable to return.
* * *
The Manhak Seogo. Lowest tier, but still ten thousand tomes—Murim treasures.
Undiscovered gems lurked; visitors often surged in skill.
“Understood. I'll tell Je-cheon.”
Namgung Ilro left the 1st Gajujeon.
This choice would bring new winds, he was sure.
Perhaps...
The clan might encompass all Murim.